Vibrancy
by flourchildwrites
Summary: Roy Mustang tightened his collar and braced himself to bear Ishval's desolate desert landscape, but each sunset added more terrible, colorful deeds to the flame alchemist's funeral pyre. "Do you still remember me?" the young sniper asked with a whey-faced glare. In all honesty, he wasn't sure. Roy wasn't prepared to find it all so vibrant.


**A/N: My offering for day 2 of Royai Week 2018**

 **Day 2: Vibrancy**

Every Amestrian schoolchild recited the rhetoric without skipping a beat. Cold, calculated phrases slipped from the mouths of babes like arsenic-laden honey poisoning the well of general knowledge until fact metastasized into a cancerous fiction:

 _Despite the military's noble efforts to ease the substantial religious and cultural tensions between the children of Ishval and their new mother nation, tragedy struck in 1901. In a fit of inexplicable insanity, likely spurred by the unforgiving desert heat, an Amestrian soldier wounded an Ishvalan child, and the frail lamb departed this life as the result of this lone wolf's deranged act. The resulting conflict, the Ishvalan Campaign, was unavoidable._

The bloodshed persisted for seven years. And even as the shepherd led more innocent lambs to the slaughter, Roy Mustang drank greedily from the poisoned well. As he peacefully slumbered with machinations of impending heroism, crimson-eyed martyrs raged against the dying of the light. As he planned his illustrious future, the indigenous desert dwellers prayed (in vain) for hope, not horror.

Executive Order Number 3066 presented itself as a brutal, but necessary, solution to the lingering Ishvalan problem. Major Mustang took the brief to heart and swallowed more than his fair share of "greater good" spin as he prepared to do his part in the noble pursuit of peace. The fresh-faced dog of the military tightened his collar and braced himself to bear the desolate and barren desert landscape.

Roy wasn't prepared to find it all so vibrant, oversaturated in quivering energy and color.

The sky was an endless expanse of azure, stretching up and around the major on cloudless days, and dry heat hung on the skyline in the form of shimmering waves. Mustang expected the sand to be course and of the muted beige variety, but it rested in varied bands of ruddy red, cream and tan. The fine particles yielded beneath the flame alchemist's feet and spread over his body, coating every touch and taste with grit. Smells of earthy sage drifted through Roy's base camp, a reminder of scant vegetation, but all too soon the natural aroma was replaced with a choking cloud of bitter ash, a telltale sign of Mustang's chosen craft.

Days and nights revolved in an endless cycle of fury and destruction as Roy added fuel to the sun's merciless fire. His flames cleansed the debris, reducing a myriad of sins to dust, and the gentlest breeze carried out the remains of bodies to chase the horizon. When there was no wind to speak of, the sun's oppressive rays sucked both breath and moisture from the bodies of Amestris' finest. But Major Mustang considered the sorry state of it all a blessing in disguise.

If the desert winds picked up too much, Roy was sure that his comrades would notice the river of blood underneath the façade of progress and peace. If they looked closely, they would observe his gloved hands trembling and fidgeting, unable to rid themselves of the red stain of murder. And if their gaze lingered for more than a second, they would see the sunken skin beneath his eyes, the hollow orbs where scenes from the Ishvalan War of Extermination replayed with every opportunity. Each sunset added more terrible, colorful deeds to the flame alchemist's funeral pyre, a fire first kindled by idealistic intentions.

And then he saw her.

"Hello Major Mustang," she said with raspy, flat tone as if she had not spoken aloud in ages. "Long time no see."

She called out to her childhood friend from the bottom of a small bluff, a sniper rifle swung comfortably over her shoulder. With one swift motion, Riza Hawkeye yanked down the hood of her ivory cloak, revealing an empty, whey-faced glare that shook an atrophied part of Roy's being. For the first time, shame trickled down his gullet, settled deep within his stomach and incited regret in Roy's soul.

"Do you still remember me?"

Roy faltered. Did he remember her or was the markswoman before him someone separate and apart from the bright-eyed cadet he last saw at the military academy? The Riza Hawkeye of his mind's eye wasn't supposed to exist in a state of war. She was the rose he plucked from the throng of thorns at Hawkeye Manor, the pedestaled maiden to whom he owed a debt beyond measure. She was the one he was supposed to come home to, but like the best-laid plans, that too had gone awry.

 _Damn this war_ , Roy thought. _Even her, she has the eyes to a killer too._

And as he considered Riza's stern and diminished demeanor against the effervescent desert backdrop, Roy understood how the sky managed to maintain its brilliant shade of cerulean blue. He knew how the shifting sands managed to swallow so much Ishvalan blood. As alchemists, snipers and soldiers executed Order 3066, taking the lives of Ishvala's faithful, the Earth God exacted a terrible toll in return, the very vibrancy of the human soul. It was equivalent exchange at its finest.

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! What can I say, I prefer my Riza/Roy with a side of sadness. I promise there's less subtle Royai on the way. As always, constructive feedback is GREATLY appreciated! Even if this fic isn't cheery bookmarks, kudos and comments (especially comments) always brighten my day!**


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